The two prime movers in the Universe are Time and Luck.    
 …Kurt Vonnegut

My childhood memories are the narrow beams of a spotlight in an enormous warehouse of the possible.  Why do these few dozen scenes survive while the rest disappear? How do they define me as I enter the gate of age? I do
not pretend to speak of these events as a 7-year-old, all have been told as I preceive them at 70.  Their meanings lead me to a befuddled understanding of myself.  For instance, my mind still has a clear picture of the sign at the   
Columbia Theater’s restroom: WHITES ONLY.  When I asked my mom what it meant, I felt the dissatisfaction that comes when an adult uses words they know a child cannot comprehend. She pulled at my arm to go get a seat.                     There were many black children who had also come to see “The Lone Ranger” on that Saturday morning but they had to be admitted through     
a side entry that went up to a hidden balcony. I did not see them.  I did not know they were there until after the movie when, walking to Kirchoff’s Bakery,  we came around the south end of Market Square and saw a long line of black kids waiting at a restroom with a sign above the door that said: COLOREDS ONLY